A/N: A/N: *insert 'it's been 84 years gif* Yes, after about that long, Shot in the Dark has finally been continued. Thank you loueze for being an amazing word wizard and for putting up with me! Everyone should go and thank her for getting this done in the first place.

Without further ado, the first chapter of SitD. Enjoy!

Chapter One

The notice stuck on the door of my apartment is the last thing I want to see after a virtually tip-less day at the crummy diner I work at. (Actually, that's a lie, because an old man gave me a five dollar bill because the faces I was giving other customers 'was the highlight of his day'). So now I have fifty-five dollars including the solitary tip.

I pull the notice off the door and sigh. Printed in big black letters are the words:

RENT OVERDUE

Beneath that is a note written by Cray, the landlord of this shitty building. It reads: darlin', its $650 monthly and if you miss this month's payment, it'll be brought up to $900. That or you're out of here.

The smiley face underneath isn't endearing, it's creepy.

I unlock the door to my one bedroom apartment and then lock it again once I'm inside. I screw the overdue notice into a ball and throw it into the trashcan with more force than necessary. This is exactly what I don't need right now. I'm still trying to pay for my mother's funeral and earning five dollars an hour and occasionally babysitting for some of the people in this building doesn't quite cover the costs of this apartment, necessities, and the funeral. I usually manage to keep my electricity and gas and water on, but now and again I'll have to go without. I have a feeling that this month I'll be sacrificing one utility yet again.

I change out of my waitress outfit and into my sweats and a too-big t-shirt. My favourite hoodies are drying by the boiler in the kitchen, so I rummage through my pitiful wardrobe in search of some other sweater to wear to fend off the chill in my apartment.

Even though I've lived here for almost two years now, I still haven't really unpacked. The breakdown of my last relationship took its toll on me, and in the end, I realised that I had to get away and live on my own terms for a while in order to get my mind sorted and my life back on track. I hadn't realised how much I'd become used to having someone to share the expenses of living with me until I was faced with bills that I couldn't afford.

We bought an apartment to share when we both started college as it was easier to live in the city instead of having to commute in and out every day. I waitressed at a fairly high-class restaurant and he worked hours at a sports shop, and together, we didn't struggle to pay rent. Living on my own was a shock at first. Getting used to meal portions for one and sleeping in bed on my own and accepting the silence that filled each room took a while, but now I'm okay. I can't say that I don't miss what I used to have, though it's too late now to ever think that we can come together again.

I haven't seen him in almost two years. It's probably time to move on.

When my hands make contact with a plastic bag stuffed in the corner of the closet, I pull it out, curious. What is stuck inside make me feel weak. It's his hoodie. His favourite hoodie, with his surname over the back. I pull it out and hold in to my nose. My eyes flutter closed. It still smells like him, after all this time.

"Peeta Mellark," I whisper. "How can you still do this to me?" I pull the garment on and the wave of memories that flood over me are almost too much to handle. I sit on the floor and pull the hood over my head. I loved wearing his clothes. They always smelt amazing and were always gigantic on me, and this hoodie is no different.

Peeta and I met when we were sixteen. At first we were just friends, but by the time we had finished high school and had travelled to a few countries with a bunch of our other friends during the following year, it was only natural that we would begin to date. I had dated three guys before him, and each of them were polar opposites of Peeta. While they were obnoxious assholes, he was loving, honest and always gave people the time of day, regardless of who they were.

After losing my father and sister within four years of each other (Mom followed the year I moved away with Peeta) he never left. He never stopped being the boy I fell in love with.

Looking back I can see how stupid our argument was on the day we broke up. I still feel so much regret for what I said. He had been spending hours upon hours locked away in the tiny room we'd turned into his 'studio' working on stuff for his college scholarship, and when he left me to eat yet another dinner alone to work on paintings and sketches, I finally told him how I felt.

"I feel like I can't even talk to you anymore!" I yelled, pacing around the kitchen and slamming down utensils. "All you do is fucking paint in that room and you don't come out at all. You're gone when I wake up and I usually fall asleep waiting for you to come the fuck out!"

"You know how important these submission pieces are, Kat, you know that everything counts on me getting that scholarship!" he had yelled back me, paint smeared over his forehead and forearms. "I'm sorry if you feel like I've abandoned you, but you could've told me how you felt instead of bottling it up like you always do, because this was bound to happen."

"What was bound to happen?!"

"This!" he said, gesturing between the two of us, his eyes ablaze. "This very argument was bound to happen because you never let anyone in! Not even me. I know you find it hard to show people how you're feeling, but by now you should know that I love you, okay? And that means that I'll always be by your side, no matter what."

"You said you could read me like an open book! You should know how I was feeling!"

"But I didn't!"

I balled my hands into fists. "Only because you never talk to me anymore!"

"This scholarship is-"

"I don't give a damn about your scholarship, Peeta! I give a damn about the fact that you're more focused on throwing paint on a canvas that you are sitting down and eating dinner with me for ten minutes in the evenings!"

"Is that really how you feel?" Peeta had asked, his brow furrowing. I folded my arms over my chest. The distance between us had been getting larger and larger over the past few months, and now it'd cracked wider open.

"Yes."

"My art isn't just splashing paint on a canvas!"

"That's all anybody's art is!" I screamed, pulling at my hair.

"What is your problem? Do you hate me?"

"Right now, of course I do!"

"Why? What have I done?"

"You've ignored me! For weeks!"

"You know, I don't think I've ever heard you say that you didn't like being ignored. You're so good at ignoring others that I would have assumed you'd be immune to it by now," Peeta had said, his eyes narrowed. That was the first time he had ever said anything like that to me, and even though it was hurt that first swelled through my chest, the fury that quickly followed was stronger.

"Fuck you, Peeta."

"You know I'm right though."

His cocky attitude pissed me off even more.

"Tell you what? Why don't you go paint something based of this argument?"

"Maybe I will. It would be way more interesting to paint you being a bitch."

My brain short-circuited. "You're like your mother, you know that?"

Peeta had tensed, locking his jaw. "I'm not."

"You are. In fact, she would probably be a better person to paint about considering how alike you are. It's a wonder you haven't hit me yet."

That was the final straw and I knew it the second I finished speaking. The fight seemed to flow from my body like water released from a dam. My hand flew up to my mouth. Peeta hadn't had the most idyllic childhood, and my bringing it up in such a way was completely out of line.

"I would never…" he had whispered, staring at me in horror. He stared for a good minute as I gripped the counter top, before his face had gone strangely blank and he walked away, slamming the door of the studio behind him. The sound made me flinch.

There was no forgiving what I had said.

It was my fault, really, for not understanding how much his scholarship meant to him. He had remained locked away in his studio for the rest of the night, silent from behind the closed door. Early the next morning I threw some clothes into a duffle bag and left without saying goodbye. The empty apartment he'd find when he came out of the studio would've been enough. I never heard from Peeta again, having deleted his number and blocked him from every communication device I owned on the train ride away from the city. Delly, an old friend of mine and Peeta's cousin, has emailed me once or twice, updating me on his life, but otherwise there's been nothing.

He won the scholarship a month after I left. According to Delly, the examiners had been so astounded by his effort that they had arranged an exhibition for his work. Delly said that everything on show was either incredibly detailed, or incredibly emotional. The few photos she attached made me feel sick. It looked like he had taken my advice. Many of the paintings were of a younger version of himself cowering under an exaggerated shadow shaped like his mother or of bruised limbs.

They were so raw. So true.

Saying that it felt like a punch in the stomach was an understatement. It was like he was personally getting revenge on me. But Peeta had won his scholarship and we lost each other, which I think was healthier for the two of us in the long run.

I eat my microwaved meal in front of the TV, and although the mindless reality show I watch makes me laugh a little, I quickly fall asleep. When I wake the following morning, I realise that I didn't have any nightmares. I had a solid ten hours of good rest. I ignored the fact that my dreams were filled with images of Peeta laughing or him lying beside me with sunlight streaming around him or long walks in the city park in midwinter. Or that it was his presence in my mind that soothed me.

The tips at the diner steadily start to increase again, and I manage to pay my rent with mere dollars to spare. But with Mom's funeral costs to repay on top of everything else, I find myself making scruffy little cards with my number on them which I slide under the doors of the local apartments I know have kids in them in an effort to earn more cash through babysitting.

I sit at my kitchen table one morning, listening to the rain hammer on the windows battling against the sound of the dripping faucet in the kitchen, and think about how depressing my life really is. Dad and Prim wouldn't have wanted this for me, and Mom wouldn't have either before she lost her mind. I'm twenty three, work at a diner earning below the minimum wage, and I live in a building that is, for the most, inhabited by drug addicts, alcoholics, and single parents who couldn't afford anything better.

Peeta drifts into my thoughts. I wonder where he is right now. Is he still living in the apartment we bought together? Has he moved on to a bigger place? Has he made fortune? Is he living the life of a successful artist? Has he moved on and found another girl to love?

Jealousy overtakes me at the thought of him being with someone else. I can't email Delly and demand to know his address, phone number and relationship status without sounding suspicious, and knowing Delly, who's a gossip at best, it wouldn't be long before Peeta would find out that I wanted to know his life story since we broke up.

I grab my laptop and begin sleuthing. It doesn't take long for me to find out information about him and I scold myself for not thinking about Google earlier. There's a news article about him from about a year ago when I type his name into the search engine. The headlines reads:

Rising Contemporary Artist Attends the International Art Association Ball

I read through the report and find that Peeta has made quite a name for himself on the art scene. It's the pictures provided that really make me take a breath, however. He hasn't really changed since I last saw him. His hair is still golden, his eyes are still stunningly blue. The suit he wears on the red carpet at the ball fits him like a glove, and his smile is so wide that I find myself smiling along at the screen. Beside him is a girl. My smile fades.

Her hair is short, cropped almost as short as Peeta's and is styled in vicious looking spikes. She has more skin uncovered than covered, and the way she has her arm looped through Peeta's and how she laughs along with him says it all. She doesn't look like the kind of girl Peeta would go for, but then again, what do I know? He looks happy. Why should I be bitter?

I squint at the caption beneath the image, my heart pounding.

Peeta Mellark walked the red carpet with 'muse' JJ Mason, though rumours that she is more than just his artistic inspiration have caught fire in recent weeks.

I swallow and lean back in my seat, staring at the photo of Peeta and JJ Mason. This was taken a year ago. Who knows what could have happened since then? And rumours of them being in a relationship were exactly that- rumours. I Google the pair of them and find nothing that confirms that they dated and I don't know whether I feel relief at this or further anxiety.

An additional article is about his artwork. Another exhibition took place and some of his earlier paintings were auctioned off; the painting called Childhood Scars selling for sixty thousand dollars. I gape at the number in shock. The article continues on:

Mr Mellark gave all the money from the paintings to charity however, telling our reporters that he isn't aiming to become rich. 'All I want is to be able to paint and make people stop and stare. I want to make people think and feel something. I want people to pause and be transported to another time or place through my work, and if I can do that, I'd say I've succeeded'.

The most recent report is from a few months ago and speculates about Peeta's next set of works.

Although nothing has been confirmed by Mr Mellark or his associates, there is speculation that he is experimenting with various types of media, and is going to branch out into photography. Will he prove to be a master of the camera as well as the brush? We sure hope so.

That makes sense. Peeta didn't just love painting and sketching, he also adored taking photos of whatever caught his eye. I bought him a camera for his birthday and he spent the day snapping photos of me, and whenever he went anywhere he'd have his camera with him. His natural eye for picking beauty out of ordinary things shone through even in photos.

Peeta has been doing well, then. Without me. I close the laptop and pull a beer from the fridge. No need to dwell on the past.

I'm sitting with Leevy on my lunch break at the diner when I come across a perplexing advert in the employment section of a newspaper.

Wanted: Female models for photo-shoot

Fixed pay of $100 per hour

No experience required.

Details will be further arranged.

There's a number and an email address below the job details. I scowl at the paper suspiciously.

"Leevy?" I say. Leevy raises her eyebrows at me to encourage me to speak since her mouth is filled with food. "Have you ever modelled?"

"What do you mean?" she asks, holding her hand over mouth.

"Modelling. You know, posing in front of a camera for a clothing brand or something?"

"With a face like mine, nah. But I did once get selected to model footwear. I have nice feet apparently," she says with a grin, pointing her foot in the air and pouting. I laugh and take a sip of my coffee. "Why'd you ask?"

"I don't know. I'm looking for a different job and found this," I say, circling the advert with a pen and sliding it across the table.

"Do you think you're going to go for it?"

"No! Of course not," I say with a shake of my head.

"Why not?"

"I'd never be picked. I'm not model-worthy."

"Shut up," Leevy says with a roll of her eyes. "You're gorgeous, Kat."

"Whatever," I dismiss her, taking the paper back and rereading the advert. "Don't you think it sounds a little shady? How do I know if this person isn't a serial killer?"

"I've become so used to the people around here that I don't know the difference between someone being nice and someone being creepy."

"That's a lie," I say. "You totally dissed that guy a few weeks ago."

"The one giving me the stink eye as I bent down to pick up those napkins?"

"Yup."

"Well, he was being weird staring at my ass like that."

"You should model then," I raise my eyebrows. "Obviously your ass is attractive."

Leevy gives me a sarcastic smile and throws a chip at me. "Careful, Everdeen, 'cus I'm gonna whoop your ass if you keep treating me like that."

The advert stays in my mind all day.

My curiosity gets the better of me, and before I know it, I'm emailing the advert back. One hundred dollars per hour is double the amount I make in a single day at the diner, and if I worked for, say, three hours, I'd make bank. I open a new email, roll my shoulders and begin to type. It takes almost an hour to write something that doesn't sound utterly ridiculous.

Hi,

I saw your advert in the Panem Press asking for models. I am interested in this job offer, and it would be appreciated if you could email me as soon as you can with some more details of what the job will entail.

I flounder at how to sign the email off, so I just put my initials. If I didn't get the job or they saw me and decided I wasn't pretty enough, I would be mortified to have them know my name.

The following morning I have a reply. The person tells me where to meet them for my test shoot, that they'll probably need me to come back occasionally for other photo shoots if everything works out.

But what surprises me is one of the requests.

Some shoots may require nude shots, though if you feel at all uncomfortable, I will find someone else who is willing.

My cheeks flush red. Nude shots? I'm not shy about my body, but I'm not exactly confident about it either. I certainly wouldn't feel comfortable with stripping off for a total stranger. I swallow. The person said that they would find another model if I didn't want to be involved in nude photographs. I don't want to lose out on such a well-paying opportunity. I don't respond for a few days, though my mind is constantly weighing the pros and cons of the job. I need the money, that's obvious, and I could ask that my identity is kept anonymous.

I bite the bullet three days after receiving a response.

I've decided to accept your offer of the job and all its conditions. When do you need me at your studio?

It turns out that the studio is just a twenty-five minute drive from my apartment yet far enough away from this area to be in the more expensive, more modern part of the city. My heart pounds as I drive, and my mind works in overdrive as I worry about all manner of things.

Will the photograph be a creepy old guy? Will other people be there? Will it be just me and the photographer? Does he or she expect me to be caked in makeup? What photos am I going to be involved in? What are these photos going to be used for?

These are all questions I should have asked before saying that I would be his or her model, but I can't back out now. I'm being relied on. I'm being paid just to stand in front of a camera for a couple of hours. Surely it's the easiest job ever.

The location I was given reveals itself as what appears to be refurbished factory, divided into separate offices. I park outside, lock my car doors, and walk up the path to the front door. The receptionist in the pristine lobby seems to already know who I am and sends me straight up to the studios. I can't help but compare the building to my own, and using a lift that doesn't hold a risk of plummeting to the ground gives me a sense of calm. In a place like this, the photographer can't be some pervert. It has to be someone who is taking photos for a legitimate reason.

The door to the studio is essentially just a huge panel of frosted glass with the number twelve etched into it. I steel myself by taking a few deep breathes, and I ignore the way my hand shakes when I lift it to knock on the door. I see the blurred outline of someone walking towards the door and wipe my hands on my jeans nervously.

The door swings open to reveal a woman who appears to be just a few years older than me. Her chin length hair is choppy and messy and her eye makeup is severe. It looks like she's wearing nothing but a kimono. For some reason her face looks familiar.

"Yes?" she says, raising a manicured eyebrow.

"Uh, I… I'm here for- for-"

"For what? The photo shoot?" the girl says. I nod, blushing furiously at my apparent lack of conversational skills.

"Oh, alright then. Come on in," she says, stepping back and opening the door further.

The inside of the studio is beautiful. Simply laid out and decorated with canvases and sculptures, it gives off a professional and modern vibe as well as feeling welcoming. The floors are shiny and the walls are clean. In the little foyer there is a bench and a cabinet with a bunch of flowers in a vase on top, and I can see what looks like a kitchen to the right. It's so understated yet so welcoming at the same time. Just the thought of the state my apartment is in compared to this place makes me depressed. And this isn't even someone's home. It's their workplace. How is it fair that my home is more run-down than a warehouse conversion?

Directly ahead is a long corridor with a door at the end and a door on one of the sides. The door at the end is filled with light. The smell of well-made coffee, paints and baked goods not only makes my stomach rumble, but reminds me of how Peeta used to smell. I shift nervously.

"So, welcome to District 12," the girl says. "I'm Johanna, but most people call me JJ or just Jo. You're KE, right?"

"Uh, yeah. Well, Katniss is my name, but I think I'd like to keep my identity to myself… if that's okay?"

"Yeah, sure. That's fine," the girl gives me a strange look and I bite my lip. "So, Katniss, you done any modelling before?"

"When I was a kid I entered a few school pageant-style things, but otherwise I've done nothing."

"A newbie, huh?" Johanna says with a twist of her lips that I can only describe as a smirk.

"Yeah."

"Well, come and meet my partner in crime," she tells me, turning and walking down the corridor, her bare feet slapping against the floor. I adjust my bag over my shoulder and twist the end of my braid nervously as I follow her.

"Yo, baker boy, the model's here!" she shouts, sashaying into the most beautiful room I've ever seen. It's a huge space with high ceilings, some walls made of exposed brick, the others painted a basic white. There are various setups around the room, and one wall has huge windows that overlook the city. I look around with wide eyes. There's a set with a bed, a standard white-background, and brightly painted corner, and various props and rails of clothing are scattered about. Johanna flops down on a beautifully upholstered chaise and smiles serenely at me.

"There's normally more than two people here. Annie – she's the makeup and outfits guru – is usually here but she's busy somewhere else today. There's other models as well of course."

"Oh," I say, giving her a nod, unsure of what else I can say. "Is these somewhere I can put my bag?" I ask.

"Yeah. There's a coat rack over there, by the door." I turn and hang my bag up on one of the hooks, before slipping off my jacket and hooking it on as well. I'm deliberating between turning off my cell or not when I hear a voice.

"Sorry for keeping you waiting, I hope Johanna was nice to you." I whirl around.

Oh, shit.

I take in the man standing in front of me. Blond, effortlessly tousled waves and blue eyes as wide as mine... it couldn't be...

"Peeta?" I ask in disbelief.

"Katniss…" Peeta says, my name coming out of his mouth in a sort of sigh.

"You two know each other?" Johanna snorts from the chaise. "Oh, this has just got a whole lot more interesting."

Meanwhile, I feel like my brain has just exploded. Peeta Mellark as in Peeta Mellark is the photographer. I blink. Peeta has stopped moving and is just staring at me. I gape at him. I glance at Johanna who gives me a wink. Now it makes sense. Johanna is JJ Mason, the girl on Peeta's arm in the photos from the red carpet last year. I knew she looked familiar and I couldn't put my finger on it. Now everything is falling into place to make sense.

"What are you doing here?" he breathes.

"I'm the model." I whisper, absolutely mortified.

"You are?" he asks. I nod.

"Oh my God," I say. "What are odds of this happening?"

"A million to one, I think."

"Wait, how do you two know each other?" Johanna repeats.

"Jo, this is Katniss."

"I know, dumbass."

"As in Everdeen." Peeta continues, giving Johanna a serious look. i frown at whatever he's insinuating.

"Oh! Oh… Wow," she says with a short laugh. "Well, I'll leave you two to it." She leaps up from the sofa and glides out of the room. I hear the hiss of a kettle and her turn up the radio in the kitchen.

"You're the photographer?" I ask. "Why didn't I figure that out sooner?"

"You're the model?" Peeta asks. He looks confused. Astounded even.

"Is that going to be a problem?" I ask, suddenly defensive. Peeta shakes his head.

"No, of course not. I just… I wasn't expecting you, that's all."

"Talk about it," I retort. Peeta smiles. I fight my own, biting down on my tongue to halt the incoming word vomit.

It feels so good to be in his presence. After two years of not speaking to him or seeing him, it's like I've been relieved of some sort of weight on my shoulders. Seeing him again feels like breath of fresh air.

He looks well. Better than well.

In short he's still devastatingly handsome. He still has a crooked smile and blindingly white teeth and soft spun-gold hair and broad shoulders and a dimple on his right cheek and narrow hips and muscled arms and oh, those eyes are still as blue as I remember. I feel like I'm a deer caught in headlights under that gaze.

"Okay, wow. Let me just get my head around this," he says. He gestures for me to sit down on the chaise and drags over a stool to sit on so that he's opposite me. He runs his hand through his hair and exhales loudly. I just stare at the way his arm moves.

"You saw an advert for modelling, we unknowingly emailed each other, and you even agreed to model nude?"

"Yeah," I say, trying to appear calm even though inside I'm flailing because the word nude sounds so delicious rolling off his tongue.

"Why?" Peeta asks. "I don't mean this offensively, but you never seemed like someone to model in the first place, never mind naked. You're too pure."

"I need the money to be honest," I say quietly. It sounds dirty when said out loud in that way. Peeta looks marginally surprised, but then he nods in understanding. I power on determinedly. "Besides, it isn't like you never took pictures of me or painted me when I was naked in the past."

Its Peeta's turn to blush this time, but I join in with his embarrassment when Johanna (who has clearly been eavesdropping) shouts:

"Mellark you dog!" followed by raucous laughter.

"Sorry. I shouldn't have said that in front of your girlfriend." I say, twisting my fingers in my lap.

Peeta chuckles. "Oh, Jo isn't my girlfriend. Far from it. We actually hate each other."

"That sounds like a good relationship to have," I joke with a raised eyebrow.

"Sometimes I don't think it is."

"Why are you looking for models?" I ask.

"I take photos for various magazines and fashion websites when I'm asked to. It's extra money. And I'm also trying to expand my portfolio outside of paintings."

It's a seamless answer.

"And why are you asking for nude models?"

"I'm focusing on the human form for my new project," Peeta says, not missing a beat. "It's going to be in my next exhibition."

"So pictures of me are going to be stared at by strangers?"

"Paintings of you have been stared at by strangers already. What's the difference?"

"There's a big difference between paintings and photographs."

"You're the one who was willing to come to a stranger's studio and strip off."

"Hey, don't make this sound sordid," I say indignantly.

"How did you know whether I was actually going to be an axe-wielding murderer?" Peeta asks.

"Why are murderers always wielding axes?" I deflect. "I can think of a thousand different weapons that would be much more effective at murder."

"So you still have a sense of humour," Peeta says gently. I nod as if it's obvious. Peeta licks his lips before he speaks, and I find myself staring at the lines of his jaw and his lips. I wonder if they're still as soft as they were, if they would still be able to reduce me to a quivering heap.

Probably.

"How have you been?" he asks, pulling me out of my brief stupor. I blush, feeling heat roll over my cheeks.

"What time frame are you looking for?"

"The last two years."

"Well, I've got a shitty apartment with too much rent to pay and a disgusting landlord and I work at a diner earning five dollars an hour, but other than that, I'm living the good ol' American Dream."

"I'm sorry, I guess."

I guess? What does he mean buy 'I guess'?

"How about you?" I immediately say. "You're obviously doing better than I am."

"I'm doing alright," Peeta shrugs, reaching a hand back and rubbing the back of his neck. I stare at his biceps. Jesus Christ. "I got my scholarship and everything's been going pretty well. I bought this studio about a year ago. It's fun having my own creative space, and it's great because it means I don't have to set up shoots in a kitchen or a bedroom. The studio back home was too small for anything other than painting, really."

"You still live in our apartment?"

"Yeah… Does that bother you?"

"No."

"I just, never moved… My art took off and… the apartment is sort of perfect. It's not too far from the studio or museums… so I didn't think about finding a new place."

"This studio is pretty fancy," I tell him, uncrossing and crossing my legs. His eyes dart downwards.

"It's alright," he says nonchalantly.

"Can you show me around?"

"There isn't much to see," he says. I shrug my shoulders. Peeta directs me around the studio. There's a full bathroom leading on from the kitchen, the second mystery door along the corridor leads to a bedroom, and a private stairwell leading up to the roof.

"Although there's other studios in this building, I'm the only one who really uses it for anything."

He offers me a drink and shows me some of the photos he's taken and the paintings he's most proud of, and I find myself stunned each time he turns the page of his portfolio or reveals another canvas.

"All of these are amazing," I say, looking up. I don't realise how close his face is to mine and flinch back slightly. If he notices my reaction, he doesn't say anything about it.

"Right, I think we should get started with some test photos," he says, snapping the portfolio shut. I feel my nerves return once more and shake my limbs out. "Annie is our resident makeup and clothing artist, but today we've got Jo instead." he explains, leading me down to one end of the studio. Johanna pushes me down into a chair and narrows her eyes. Peeta pats her on the shoulder.

"Play nice, Jo. Remember not everyone suits ten pounds of black eye shadow," he says playfully. Johanna gives his retreating form a middle finger.

"Go play with some cameras and lights, baker boy," she sneers. Peeta laughs and disappears behind a set wall.

Johanna applies what feels like about ten pounds of makeup to my face and yanks out most of my hair, but when she hands me a mirror to - and I quote – 'examine the damage' I find myself looking at a natural looking face. My eyeliner is a simple cat eye and my lipstick is a soft shade of pink. My hair has been just been taken out of its braid and made more voluminous with the help of some backcombing and hairspray. I actually kind of look good.

"What shoot is this?" I ask.

"Just a test shoot, really, but it's also something for some pretentious clothing line."

I cringe at the outfits Johanna pulls from the clothes rack. She puts me in a pair of high-waisted distressed denim shorts, and cropped top with 'fuck everyone' written on it, and a pair of terrifyingly high shoes. When she sees my face, however, she swaps them for a pair of studded boots with the zips undone and loads my wrists with heavy bracelets.

When I finally get in front of the camera, I can feel Peeta's eyes on me. Johanna stands beside him and watches me intently as Peeta snaps away. I feel awkward and clunky and can't seem to act normal. I try to mimic what I've seen online and in magazines. I'm pretty sure I look like a gangly freak.

Peeta encourages me to do this or that and his praise is like winning a golden ticket. He shows Johanna the images and she nods, giving suggestions and gesturing with her hand. Peeta nods as I stand there.

"Outfit change!" Johanna shouts, hauling me away to change again.

"How am I doing?" I ask anxiously. I can feel myself sweating.

"You're doing well, kid," she says. "You're not 'posing' like other models do. Peeta hates that. You just look… good."

"Thanks," I whisper. Johanna hands over some more clothes. This time it's a flowy skirt, a patterned bralet and a flower crown.

I go through a few other outfit changes over the next few hours and by the end of the four hours I spend in the studio, I feel way more confident and strong than I did when I first came in. If every shoot is going to be as easy as this, I'll be fine. The voice in my head tells me that it'll be totally different once I'm naked. That I'll be timid and embarrassed all over again when I have to lounge about in nothing but whatever Peeta puts me in. I force myself to ignore the voice.

Peeta thanks me and hands me a cheque for four hundred dollars before I leave.

"This was great, Katniss," he says with a genuine smile. "It was nice seeing you again."

"Same here," I say. "I hope we can do this again sometime."

"I think I'll let you stick around," he smirks. "Just email me or call if you have any questions about the job. You'll be contacted if we need you."

"Okay. See you around."

The bounce in my step is unmistakable as I walk towards the elevator, and I smile at my reflection on the journey to the first floor. I order the most expensive pizza on the takeaway menu of the local pizzeria and buy a bottle of celebratory wine for tonight's meal as well as cashing in the check. When I waltz into Cray's office and pay this month's rent, the look on his face is priceless as he stares at the money on the table.

"Did ya rob a fucking bank?" he asks, staring at the bills as I've just thrown Monopoly pieces at him.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" I say, slamming his office door.

Later that night, as I sip wine and eat pizza in front of the TV, I realise how my rash decision to go for a stint at modelling has resulted in Peeta and I meeting again. I think about how cautious I was after breaking up with him. I haven't been with anyone else since then, and I've be careful about anyone and everyone. Even though I've tried to ignore everything to do with Peeta, I can see now that we were stupid, barely old enough to drink, and didn't think about what we were doing before we had done it.

The idea of posing nude in front of Peeta and his camera is suddenly a whole lot more daunting, yet the thrill that rolls down my spine is anything but.

find me on tumblr at writingforhugs :)